‘Who would you know, Mom? You’ve lost touch with all your friends.’
‘Well … maybe someone from here is considering a move as well.’
‘Someone from …’ Frank began, but then realized that he knew the answer. ‘Walter?’
His mother looked away. ‘Well, yes, as it happens. It seems Walter is thinking of relocating to the coast as well.’
Frank looked at her for several moments. ‘You and Walter have decided to move to the coast together. Why can’t you just say that?’
‘Oh, Frank, I can’t see that it matters how I say it.’
He couldn’t for the minute even focus on how unlikely the situation was. The idea that his mother had made some positive plans for the future, had embarked upon some kind of a relationship, had shown any interest at all in life, was too big to take in. His immediate response was taken up by his frustration with her.
‘Because … I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem honest. If you and Walter are … friends, well, that’s fine, I’m happy, but why can’t you just say it? Do you think I’m going to disapprove?’
Maureen didn’t answer. She walked over to the window and looked out at the garden. It was a long time before she spoke.
‘I was very proud of your father, you know, when we were first married. I’d talk about him to anyone who’d listen. Talk about him as if he were a possession. “My husband” — well, it suggests ownership, doesn’t it? I didn’t realize then that we don’t own anything, least of all our own good fortune. You’re left feeling very foolish when it slips away.
‘I didn’t make that mistake with you. I never boasted about your achievements. I didn’t want someone up there hearing me and thinking they’d take me down a peg or two. I came to think that it was better to protect yourself by expecting the worst — that way you can build up quite a shell.
‘Like everything else I’ve ever done, I’ve no idea if that was the right or wrong thing to do, but I’m afraid it’s not a very easy habit to break.’ She turned to look at Frank. ‘But I know I’m tired of this place. I don’t want to stay in this room any longer. I need some air. I need to breathe.’
49
They joined the canal in the city centre, but within a few minutes they had left the cafés and bars behind them and were walking in the shadows of factories and warehouses along the black tow path.
‘I hope you don’t mind meeting outdoors.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘This is my life now, Frank. Traipsing the highways and byways of the city like a vagrant, the only way I can have a smoke. They treat us like lepers, doesn’t matter that we keep the economy afloat. People bang on and on about civil liberties in China, but I’d swop places any day. They love their fags there — can’t get enough of them. I tell you what, I could live with never standing in front of an approaching tank if it meant I could smoke when I wanted — seems like a win-win situation to me if ever there was one.’
Frank wondered if this was how it was going to be: an evening with Cyril Wilks — the man and his thoughts.
Cyril seemed to pick up on this. ‘Thanks for coming, though, Frank. I do appreciate it. I know you’re a busy man.’ He started walking in the direction of a bench on the tow path. ‘Do you mind if we sit down for a bit?’ He lit another cigarette and Frank noticed his hand shaking. ‘We look like a right pair of fairies, but never mind.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘You know this place is crawling with them, don’t you? I’ve learned a lot about the homosexuals since the smoking ban. You wander along the canals and there’s some chap asking you the time, or watching you from under the bridge. Hombres furtivos I call them. It’s a shame I’m not that way inclined as it would make the trudging around outdoors a little more rewarding. You know — kill two birds with one stone. “Got a light?” “I’ve got more than that, mate.” “Ooh …” ’
Frank interrupted him. ‘Cyril, what was it you wanted to talk about?’
Cyril exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘I’ll come clean straight away, Frank. I owe you an apology — there is no new business venture. I’m sorry for getting your hopes up. It was a cruel trick.’
Frank tried to look disappointed. ‘Oh, I see.’
Cyril didn’t seem inclined to say any more so Frank prompted him. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss?’
Cyril looked out at the water. ‘It’s a funny game — writing.’
As Frank had suspected, this was going to be a slow trip down memory lane. He wondered how long before Bryce Spackford hove into view. For some reason he found himself not minding, though. Sitting on the bench, watching debris float by on the surface of the canal, listening to Cyril reminisce was strangely calming.
‘Specifically writing for other people. It’s like being invisible. The only clues that you exist are in the lines that occasionally come out of other people’s mouths.’
Frank frowned. ‘What makes you do it?’
Cyril gave a short laugh. ‘Not for the money, that’s for sure. I suppose it’s just nice to watch a television programme and hear something you’ve written. Proves that you’re there. You need that sometimes. Sometimes the rest of life doesn’t feel quite real. You’ll laugh, but it’s as if until I’ve heard you say it, it doesn’t count. Sometimes I almost have to fight the urge to ring you up and tell you stuff to make it count. Imagine that on the news: “Bong: Cyril Wilks went to the library today.” ’
Frank smiled. ‘Is that what this is about? Breaking Cyril News? Washed the car today, did you?’
Cyril changed the subject. ‘You were a good mate of Phil’s, weren’t you?’
Frank was caught off guard. ‘Phil? Yes … I suppose so. I mean we didn’t live in each other’s pockets, but we always kept in touch.’
Cyril nodded. ‘Phil and I weren’t so close. We went back a long way, but it was always more of what you might call a working relationship. He was the face on the screen and I was the invisible man behind the curtain. No one knew about my role and that’s how I liked it most of the time, but sometimes it’s nice to have some recognition, to let people know about your part … or at least tell someone …’
‘You don’t need to tell me, though, Cyril. I know about the work you did for Phil and for the others, for Big Jackie —’
‘Johnnie. Big Johnnie Jason.’
‘Yes, him, and the others … and me.’
Cyril chewed his lip for a moment and then said. ‘What would you say if I told you Phil’s death wasn’t an accident?’
Frank frowned. ‘I’d ask if this was a joke.’
Cyril shook his head. His cigarette had gone out. Frank mustered all the patience he could as he watched Cyril pat every pocket several times over looking for his lighter before finding it on the bench next to him where he’d left it. After taking another drag he finally spoke. ‘I told you before, didn’t I, that I bumped into Phil before he died? Well, it was actually the night before it happened. I was down in London chasing a bit of work and went into a hotel bar near Oxford Circus for a snifter and there he was. He was a fair bit worse for wear — you know — greeted me like some long lost loved one, insisted I join him, bought me a double. We started off talking about the old days, but he kept veering off into frankly very depressing territory: ageing, decay, humiliation, doom and general gloom. It was bloody miserable, to be honest. I thought, Note to self — avoid social drinks with Phil in future.’ Cyril gave a forced laugh.
Frank thought of what Michelle had told him; he thought of his own last conversation with Phil, but said nothing.
Cyril continued. ‘Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he told me he’d decided death was the only option.’